


Staring at the Sea

by Allthephils



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: AU, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, There Is Only One Bed, maybe a little sad?, non explicit sexual content, not a strictly happy ending but an open one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allthephils/pseuds/Allthephils
Summary: Dan wears a braided chain made of finest silver from the north of Spain, a locket that bears the name of the man that he loves.Title is from a Cure album but this fic was based a different song entirely :)
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 49





	Staring at the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi at [@allthephils](http://allthephils.tumblr.com)
> 
> If you like the fic, please reblog it on Tumblr. You can do that [here](https://allthephils.tumblr.com/post/617045921804550144/staring-at-the-sea)
> 
> Thank you!

The streets are empty this time of night. Dan walks till he reaches the railing that keeps him safely perched atop the crumbling cliff side. His fingers curl tightly around the locket tucked into his palm and he looks to the horizon, conjuring a ship in his mind, on it’s way back to him.

He had always wanted to live by the sea. Ever since he was a little boy, he dreamed of salt air and crashing waves and a little cottage on a hill, and when he got a little older, he dreamed of sailors.

This isn’t a bad life. It’s just not what he had in mind. The salt air mostly smells like fish and the sailors are not strong and silent. They are loud and stumbling, falling from their chairs by the end of the night. The kind ones are lonely, sitting at the bar for hours at a time. They talk about home and the women they left behind. Their voices crack, eyes wet with choked back tears. Dan listens tirelessly and tops off their whiskies. 

Those are the best of them. Most of the others don’t acknowledge that he exists. Those that do notice him are rude, demanding, even threatening. That, or they slip him notes, touch him secretly under the table, corner him and ask to go upstairs. Sometimes those two are one and the same. And the women are exhausted, lonely and understandably bitter. Some of them have let the bitterness take root and fester until they are no better than the men than hurt them, men that they wait for still. They say he can cook and clean and he really knows how to listen. They say he’d make a better husband than there’s, if only they were younger. Flirting is one thing, propositioning isn’t the worst thing a person could do in a moment of weakness. But some of them grab and take what they want, ordering him around and talking about his body. Alcohol can erase a lot of morality when grief and anger and hurt are alongside it. 

He thinks about leaving but he knows he won’t. He’ll stay here, waiting, but he’s not like them. The name on his locket belongs to someone worth the wait. 

  
  
  
  


It was summer when he first came to Dan’s little harbor town. He sat at a table outside and nursed a single lager for hours. There was an open book in his hands but every time Dan went out to check on him, his eyes were on the water, glasses resting in his hand. After the dinner rush, Dan found him, feet up on a chair, head lolled against the storefront, sound asleep. 

“Excuse me,” Dan said, terrified of waking him but feeling like he’d freeze out here in short sleeves now that the sun was down. He didn’t stir, but breathed softly and twitched his nose like a rabbit. Tentatively, Dan reached out to tap his shoulder gently, and then a little harder. 

The sailor lifted his head. “Huh, uh, oh,” He squinted up at Dan before reaching for his glasses and straightening up, feet landing on the ground with a heavy thump.

“Sorry to bother you, uh, sir, but it’s getting cold out here, ” Dan said. He looked up at Dan, looking younger with his hair rumpled and his glasses askew. 

“No, no, thank you,” he said with a quick smile, “I sleep like the dead, I’d have been here all night.” He ran a hand through his hair and stretched in a way that made Dan feel like he shouldn’t be looking. “And please don’t call me sir, that’s too much pressure. I’m just Phil.”

His accent was northern, his voice low and gravely from sleep. It would’ve been something to sit and talk with him, in his striped shirt and wool trousers, like a sailor in a storybook. Dan wanted to ask him why he came into port just to sit and stare at the sea. He wanted to ask a lot of things. All he managed was, “Is there a problem with your drink?”

“What?’

“Your beer, you hardly touched it,” Dan said, “I can get your money, you don’t have to pay if it was off.”

“Oh! No it’s fine.” He looked down at his nearly full glass then picked it up and sniffed it, twisting his face in disgust. “I hate beer.”

  
  
  


No one notices when Phil walks into a room. He slips in, tall and broad, but somehow small and unassuming. Sitting quietly, he observes, his face changing, subtle reactions as he listens to conversations and arguments all around him. That is, until someone says something that piques his interest. Then he’s quick to add some sweet and funny commentary, something silly and endearing that earns him fond laughter from the women and scoffs and jeers from the men. Once he’s got their attention, his confidence is buoyed and the stories begin. At first it was only short musings from his unconventional childhood or ridiculous tales of one bizarre meeting after another. Most nights, half the patrons in the bar gather around Phil just to hear him talk. At some point, he moves his hoard to a table to make them more comfortable. 

Dan watches from where he stands behind the bar. He’s never heard a story told the way Phil tells a story. Each one is produced spontaneously, perfectly topical and humorous, often at Phil’s own expense. Some of the details must be embellished. It seems unlikely that one young man could have lived through so many misadventures. Even so, they are crafted with just the right pacing to build to a climax, keeping his little flock in rapt silence until they burst into laughter or share one collective gasp. 

Eventually, people go home or back to work and as the audience thins, Phil’s stories get less amusing and more adventurous. He tells of storms, of days lost to crashing waves, hands flailing as he goes. His eyes flash and shine with every word and Dan cannot look away. Phil talks about the sea like she’s some cruel lover he can’t leave. She’s just out of reach, unfaithful, untamed, and indescribably beautiful.

Phil comes and goes, like all of the sailors do. Once Dan knows your name, you're a regular in his eyes but Phil is special. Dan lingers, watching from the corner of his eye, asking what else he can bring him, finding excuses to be close. No one is better at banter than Dan but with this one, he stammers and blushes. He can’t find the clever words that usually roll so easily from his tongue. Phil has the upper hand and Dan is happy to let him have it. 

“Hey Dan, I’ve got something for you.” Phil is sat at the bar. He doesn’t do that often, opting for a table if there is one available. 

“For me?” Dan’s voice is a squeak that comes straight from the heart. 

“Yeah,” Phil says, digging into the pocket of his pea coat, “you mentioned how much you love the beach.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, you said you like the breeze and the sound of the waves.”

It’s possible Phil is just the kind of person that remembers details like that but he remembered something Dan said in passing, something so true to Dan that he doesn’t even remember saying it. 

“I picked this up in New Zealand about a year ago. The beaches there are like nowhere else.” He opens his hand to reveal a tiny seashell, shining white with swirling black dots.

“It’s been here in my pocket, waiting for the right person.”

Dan picks the shell from Phil’s palm and holds it up to the light.

“You’ve been carrying this around since last year?”

“I have lots of shells. I keep them displayed in my room on the ship. This one seemed like a gift though and then I saw you.” He smiles and it is radiant. “I thought you might like it.”

“I love it Phil,” Dan says quietly, “thank you.”

That night he stays until the bar closes. They talk until the cook is gone and the chairs are up. Dan could do this every night if it means he gets to hear these new stories, simpler more personal stories with less sparkle but more Phil. And Dan shares too, more than he has with anyone in years, maybe ever.

Phil startles when he realizes the time. He apologizes and reaches into his pocket, sliding his money forward on the bar. Dan’s hand comes down over his. 

“It’s on me.”

“Dan, I couldn't.”

“You could. You can. You will.” He smiles at Phil, watching his eyes move all over Dan’s face. He feels exposed but he’s not bothered. “You’ve made this the best night, Phil. Every night you come in. Honestly, you save me.”

He lets his fingers curl around to squeeze Phil’s hand. It feels small in his. Slowly, Phil shifts his wrist until they are palm to palm. Their fingers find each other, weaving together there on the bar. Dan is content to stay this way indefinitely but Phil finally pulls away.

“Thanks for this Dan,” he says, “this was really nice.”

“You’re always welcome here, Phil.”

“Come here.”

Dan is frozen for a moment but he wipes his clammy hands on his trousers and walks around the bar to where Phil stands. His arms are open and Dan steps into an embrace he won’t soon forget. He hooks his chin over Phils shoulder and he can smell his spicy, woodsy aftershave. Silently, he begs him not to let go. He does let go, of course. 

“I’ll see you when I’m back on land.”

The door swings closed and he’s gone, leaving Dan with a pretty little seashell in his pocket and an increasingly persistent flutter in his heart. 

  
  


Months go by without Phil coming into the tavern and Dan misses him more than he should. He’s distracted, watching the door with every ring of the little bell that hangs on the handle. When he finally comes, it’s late, when the tavern is nearly empty. He takes a seat in the back, near the piano. 

“Kitchen’s closing soon,” Dan says, handing Phil his usual cider, doing his best to appear casual, “you hungry?”

It takes a moment for Phil to focus on Dan but when he does, a smile spreads wide on his face, crinkling his eyes. They’re framed by deep shadows, salt kissed hair hangs in strings over his glasses. Stress and sleep deprivation have carved lines into his forehead and temples and Dan wishes he could soothe them smooth with his fingertips. 

“Danny! It’s so good to see your face.” A slight blush colors his cheeks and he glances downward. “I mean, a familiar face, it’s good to see a friendly face.”

“It’s good to see you too Phil,” Dan says, “food?”

Phil shakes his head. “I do have a request though.”

Dan furrows his brow.

“I’ve had a hell of a run and I could use a pick me up. Play me a song?”

Dan laughs, “oh no, I don’t play.”

“You mean to tell me you were gifted with those hands,” Phil looks down at Dan’s hands, rough from dishwater, a wet rag in one, the other fidgeting with his belt loop, “and you never learned to play the piano?”

Dan bites his lip to keep from grinning and leans in so Phil can hear his whisper.

“When that arsehole either passes out or leaves,” he tilts his head toward the one other person still drinking at the bar, “you can try asking me nicely. And we’ll see.”

An hour passes and the man at the bar is still there, sipping his beer like he’s in no hurry. Dan lets him know it's last call but he only grunts in reply. 

“I think I’m going to have to insist that Mr drunk and sullen over there leave.” Dan says, sitting down at the free chair at Phil’s table, “He doesn’t seem keen.” 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check on the serenade. I still need to find a room. Might just stay on the boat.” He yawns.

“Oh. Really?” Dan chews the cuticle on his thumb. “But it’s so late. And you look exhausted. Why don’t you just come upstairs? It’s small but comfortable.”

Phil looks at him for a few minutes. “You sure you don’t mind. I just need a bed.”

“Well, lucky you, I have one of those.” Dan grins and gets up, taking Phil’s glass and wiping the table down.

He gets started closing up and the guy at the bar takes the hint, finally paying up and leaving. Phil helps Dan get the chairs on to the tables and provides a lovely soundtrack while he sweeps the floors.

“Alright, up we go,” Dan says, flicking the light switch at the bottom of the stairs. Phil walks past him and Dan’s eyes follow as he climbs. The act of walking up stairs has a specific and welcome effect on the fit of a man’s trousers. Phil’s hips sway like a woman’s and Dan feels a bit drunk on the view. Eventually, the rest of Phil sways as well and his foot misses a step. He stumbles and nearly falls back but Dan speeds up behind him and catches his broad shoulders, steadying him so he can find his footing. When they reach the top, he trips once more, seemingly over his own feet.

“I can’t believe you can stay on your feet on the boat,” Dan laughs, slipping his shoes off, “you’re so clumsy.”

Phil slips his off as well and throws his coat over a chair. 

“Hey! My sea legs are great, it's dry land I can't navigate.”

They take their turns at the sink. Phil has a small leather pack in the pocket of his coat with a toothbrush and a little bar of soap wrapped in a flannel. Dan is impressed. When he’s finished Dan has made a bed on the floor from his extra linens. Phil is just stood, hand rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“I’d offer to loan you pajamas but I don’t own any,” Dan says. He sits down on his makeshift bed and climbs under the blanket to undress down to his pants. Phil pulls off the jumper he’s wearing, leaving him clad in trousers and a vest. He looks so open, stood there like that. Dan wants to walk into his arms like he did that night, the last time Phil came to town. He’s propped up on an elbow and he watches Phil walk to the other side of the bed and sit. Dan can’t see below his waist form where he is but he can tell he’s pushing his trousers down and removing his socks. He catches a glimpse of long legs when Phil swings them up onto the bed and under the covers. He reaches to the bedside to switch off the lamp.

“Goodnight Phil.”

“Dan, this feels wrong.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. You don’t have to stay if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No, I mean. You’re so kind to invite me. I can’t take your bed.”

“Oh. I’m fine.”

“I share a boat with dozens of sweaty, disgusting men Dan. I think I can survive sharing the bed with you.”

Dan opens his mouth to protest but Phil insists and so he stands and climbs in next to him. They’re both on their backs, inches apart, stiff and unmoving. 

“Better?” Phil asks.

“Maybe.”

It’s been a while since Dan shared this bed with anyone. It's not easy to let his guard down. In the quiet of the dark room, Dan focuses on the cadence of Phil’s soft breaths and his eyes slip shut. Something brushes against his knuckles and his hand moves toward the sensation. Their fingers bump over one another in a slow motion dance, unwilling to admit the need to hold on. 

When Phil’s fingers curl around Dan’s, it’s familiar. When Phil lifts his hand in his and brings Dan’s knuckles to his lips, it’s something entirely different. Dan’s breath catches, he can't disguise it, his impulse control is waning. He turns his head but it’s too dark to make anything out beyond a beautifully sculpted silhouette. Turning on to his side, he lets his other hand come to rest on Phil’s forearm and feels his consciousness drift. 

When the sun streams in, Dan’s eyes flutter open to find Phil in just the same place. His face looks softer like this, sleeping in the morning light, lips soft and parted. Dan can’t imagine anything more lovely. His arm has found its way to drape over Phil’s chest. He should pull back and leave some space between them. None of this seems permissible in the light of day. So he closes his eyes. He won’t be awake if it means this has to end. 

When he wakes again, Phil is at the sink, running a comb through his hair. He really carries everything in that little pack. 

“Morning,” Dan says, rubbing his eyes. 

“Morning Dan.” PhiI is dressed. He sits on the only chair to pull on his shoes. “Your hair is so fluffy in the morning.” 

Dan wants to hide but not alone. He wants to pull Phil back to bed and let him see him, hide from everyone else.

“I have business on the docks.” He hesitates. “But we don’t shove off until tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you later then?” Dan says.

He does see him later. Business must have gone well because Phil is on tonight. He’s got new tales to tell, funnier than ever. He doesn’t know how much he brings. This is just what it’s like to be him. But Dan is serving whiskey and wine to laughing, smiling sailors and he hasn't been shouted at once all evening. Imagine bringing sunshine inside a place as dreary as this, what a skewed view of the world he must have. Dan just wants to bask in his light. 

“You’re staying I hope?” Dan says to Phil as he leans in to clear the empties from the table. Phil’s audience has broken into their own little groups, sharing their own funny or sad or embarrassing moments with one another, inspired.

“I don’t know. It was a hot day and I could use a bath. I don’t want to sully your sheets.” He breathes the sweetest laugh. “I should just find a room.”

“Phil.” Dan looks around to be sure no one is paying them any attention. He lowers his voice. “I have a bath.”

Phil doesn’t meet his eye but the corner of his mouth pulls just slightly.

At closing time, Dan sends Phil upstairs to spare himself the challenge of being present while he undresses. He finishes up and heads upstairs with a boiling kettle in hand, Phil sits in his tub, his knobby knees sticking up out of the water.

“I’m lucky to have plumbing in a place like this but I know the value of a hot bath. Averting his eyes, Dan begins pouring hot water in near the foot of the tub.. “Watch your legs and say when.”

“When,” Phil says after a minute or two. He lets out a long slow sigh. “God this feels good.”

Dan sits on his chair, awkwardly facing the bed. He can hear the water move as Phil washes. They talk about Phil’s father, how he worked his whole life for a ship of his own, how Phil was raised on a beautiful island and came of age manning the lines on his father’s boat. Fishing defines Phil’s family. It’s not just his father’s legacy, it’s who they are, collectively. It’s their past, present, and future. Dan knew he loved the sea but now he knows he loves his family even more. There is a profound sense of duty in his tone when he speaks of them. Nothing on land will measure up to what waits for Phil on the water.

Water splashes on to the floor, breaking the tension in the air, and Dan risks a sideways glance. Phil is attempting to wash his hair. 

“Good god, Phil.” Dan rushes over and takes the pitcher from Phil’s hand. “You’re a menace. Are you trying to recreate one of the storms from your stories?”

He pours the water gently over Phil’s head, brushing his hair back with the other hand. 

“You really do hate dry land don’t you?” 

Phil isn’t talking. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back. Dan keeps his eyes above the surface of the water but the freckles on Phil’s shoulders are enough to make him ache. Taking the soap from the sink, he lathers his hands and pushes them into Phil’s hair, scrubbing his scalp and feeling the silky strands slip through his fingers. Phil’s chest moves up and down so slowly. 

Dan fills the pitcher again. 

“Keep your eyes closed.” He pours, raking through Phil’s hair, careful to keep the soapy water from running down over his eyes. 

There’s a loud clank when the metal pitcher hits the floor. Everything is so loud, every ripple of water, every drip from the tap, every beat of Dan’s heart. 

“Don’t worry,” Dan says, “I’m not looking.” He is looking but just at Phil’s wet lashes and his perfect crooked lips. He’s looking at his neck, stretched back, long muscles on display. He’s looking at collarbones that beckon him to continue down to chest hair and nipples and further still, but he resists. Collarbones are as far as he’ll go. 

“Seems like a waste,” Phil says, almost a whisper.

There’s a moment of stunned silence before laughter bubbles from Dan nervous and uncontrolled. 

Phil laughs too, a timid chuckle. His voice goes deeper, “You can look at me, Dan.”

Dan lays a towel on the wet floor and stands with another over his arm. Phil is watching his face so intently, Dan’s not sure what he’s looking for. With a subtle shift, he plants his hands on the side of the tub and stands.

Dan can’t breathe, he can’t speak. His body responds to all that skin, dripping wet and offered just for him. But it’s Phil’s blue eyes, soft and tentative, that has his heart flipping in his chest. He manages to offer a hand and Phil takes it, stepping out and taking the towel from Dan. He only holds it there at his side.

Dan opens the buttons on his shirt and pulls it off. 

Phil takes a step forward and Dan lets go. He reaches forward, wrapping an arm around Phils waist and pulling him close. His hand slides over the wet skin of his back, fingers tracing over rippling muscle and soft dimples. Every piece of Phil presses against him. Lips land on the crook of his neck and he can’t stop the whimpering moan that comes. Phil’s hands are on his belt and then his button and his trousers drop to the floor. Fingertips trail down his spine and all he can do is hold tight and feel.

“Phil, I’m, I want-“ The words won’t come. He’s already so far gone.

“Shh, Danny,” Phil says into the space below Dan’s jaw, “show me.”

***

The next few weeks are the longest Dan has known. He had woken to Phil kissing his shoulder softly to wake him. They tried to say goodbye but every time they kissed, their hands would roam and they’d lose minute after minute to sighs and the sweetest words.

“You’re amazing.” Phil had said and Dan just kissed him again because what could he say? 

Every morning since has been a contradiction of memory and longing, joy and loneliness. It hasn’t been long. Dan knows he should be grateful. He starts taking walks before the bar opens, to settle his thoughts and look at the water. He sees the ships come in and asks around, hoping for some news. 

When Phil does return, there’s no warning. He comes in on a wind, shutting the door hard behind him. Dan’s never seen him in a beanie. The tip of his nose is pink. They share a wide smile from across the room but that has to be all for now. It’s not nearly enough. Mercifully, the night passes quickly and Phil follows Dan upstairs without any discussion.

Sometimes weeks pass before he comes back, sometimes months, but Dan knows he’ll see him again. People still gather around Phil but now, he gives them limited time before he breaks away to find his own space. He has quieter stories to tell, to a much smaller audience. His sing song lilt makes fewer appearances in favor of a deeper tone, more and more northern as he lets go of any pretense.

No matter the audience though, however intimate the setting, it all comes back to the sea. She is Phil’s one great love, and Dan knows he can’t compete. All he can do is listen in awe as Phil relays the fear and the wonder of being out there with her. It’s all so vivid, he can feel the fall and rise of the water, imagine the spray on his skin. It takes his breath away.

They spend every moment they can together, too few moments, and too far between. They don’t talk about what they’re missing. That would be a waste of precious minutes they could spend laughing or touching or holding one another. And so every moment is savored and every night is more than Dan thought was possible.

Sometimes, they fall asleep, spent and happy, giddy with affection for one another. Other times, they can’t catch their breath. They hold on as if the other might drift away and they sleep like that, clinging to a fleeting moment.

***

”I don’t want you to go,” Dan says, sitting up in bed. He should be used to these goodbyes but he’s not.

Phil is pulling on his coat. The sun has yet to rise and the room is lit only by the lamp on the vanity. Dan’s heart is in his throat as Phil sits on the edge of the bed. His hand is soft on Dan’s cheek. How can they be so soft with the life he leads? Leaning into his touch, Dan closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of his hands, feels the rough woolen edge of his coat against his jaw. Dan’s sailor, in his pea coat and knit cap, the sailor he’d dreamt of. Except this one smells like heaven. This one is clumsy and sways on his feet, stone cold sober. This one is soft and kind and funny, and he’s leaving. 

Phil shifts and Dan’s eyes open. Hanging from two delicate fingers is a glittering chain with a locket swinging from the center.

“It’s a locket,” Phil says, holding it higher so it glints in the soft light. “My father bought it from a street merchant in Spain, finest silver you can get.” He smiles and a piece of Dan’s heart falls to the floor. “Well, finest silver you can get from a street merchant at the docks in the north of Spain.”

The locket drops into Dan’s palm. He turns it over in his hand and pushes the little button so it pops open. On one side is a lock of ginger brown, baby fine hair. A tiny painting of a sailboat on calm waters is tucked behind it. On the other side, there’s a simple engraving,  _ Philip Michael Lester _ , and underneath the name, these words:  _ May your heart be strong and your compass, true. _

“My mother gave me that locket,” Phil begins, “My father gave it to her.”

Theirs is the greatest love story of all according to Phil. These days his mother is on the boat with them, working hard, keeping everyone in line, fattening them up on sweets. When the boys were little though, she stayed in their cottage on the Isle of Man and waited for her sailor to come home. Times were hard then, Phil’s father had been fishing his whole life but he had only just acquired his own ship and ventured out with his own crew. Reputation only gets you so far. The success they know now was hard won with sweat and tears and decades of experience. 

Phil’s father, Nigel, had planned well. Martyn, their first born, had come a few days early, so he took ten days at home, more than he could really afford. When Phil hadn’t yet made an appearance a week past his due date, Nigel and Katherine agreed, he had to go. It was one of the coldest winters on record and if he didn’t get on the water soon, he’d lose the opportunity altogether. On the day he left, Nigel cried. Martyn was still sound asleep and he leaned in to the crib to kiss his forehead and whisper goodbye. Then, he sat in front of his pregnant wife, kissing her belly and cooing to Phil.

“I’ll be back darling, before you know it. Papa loves you so much, my little Fiona.”

“Or Philip,” Katherine had said, smiling down at Nigel.

When he stood, he took her face in his hands and kissed her cheeks. She wiped his tears away.

“We’ll be fine, love. You know we will.” 

“Yes,” Nigel had said, “but will I?”

He pulled the locket from his pocket and reached around Katherine’s neck to fasten the braided silver chain there. 

“It’s empty,” Katherine said when she opened it.

“When this babe is born, we’ll engrave her name and add a lock of hair. It will be hers to give to her love when she’s grown.”

“Or his love,” Katherine said.

Nigel only smiled and kissed her. He held her for a long while before pulling away. 

“And it’s not empty,” he said, “it’s full of possibility.”

Clicking the locket shut, Dan’s thumb runs over the smooth silver before tracing along the braided chain. He opens the clasp and pulls the ends behind his neck. Phil reaches around to join the ends before Dan can manage. 

“So you won’t forget me.”

Dan attempts a huff of laughter but the sound is watery and pained. It doesn’t matter. There’s no point in hiding his heart when Phil sees right through him. He always sees him just as he is.

“You know I could never forget you, Phil,” Dan says.

“I’ll be back.” That’s what he always says but he never says when. He doesn’t really know. They kiss, quivering, holding back grief and regret in favor of one last press of their lips. When Phil stands, he brushes his fingers through Dan’s wild curls and Dan forces a sad smile.

So many words sit waiting on Dan’s tongue but all he says is goodbye.

And Phil’s gone. Again.

Dan washes his face and dresses in dark trousers and a Henley. He tucks the locket underneath so no one will know it’s there. That’s where it stays, resting near his heart until Phil can take its place. He’ll only take it off when he’s alone, to hold it in his palm and read the inscription, curl his fingers around it, and remember the feel of Phil’s hand in his. 

The tavern is full to capacity. Someone is playing the piano in the back of the room but Dan can’t hear it over the din of booming voices and scraping chairs. The tray balanced on Dan’s hand is weighed down with dishes and it sways as he weaves through the maze of tables. It’s been months since Dan has been held, months since he felt his heart leap from just one touch. He thinks of Phil every minute of every day.

There’s a sailor at the bar tonight that Dan has seen before. He’s handsome with wavy black hair and a trim beard, big, expressive brown eyes and a thick Italian accent. His body looks strong, all firm edges and sloping lines. Dan looks but it only makes him think of Phil and how he is made of contrasts, sharp angles and soft curves. Dan listens to the sailor talk, answers his questions, and fills his glass over and over. The women in the bar all take their time with him, sidling up and making small talk. He dismisses each one of them with a tight lipped, “have a good evening, miss.”

Dan watches, amused, and dries dishes behind the bar. 

“You have someone back in Italy missing you?”

“No,” the man says, looking up at Dan through long dark lashes. “I keep to myself mostly.” He drinks, watching Dan move back and forth, staying busy.

“I did meet someone once.” There's a tiny smile on his face as he talks. “Someone I see everytime I visit a certain town. I’ve always been too shy to speak up.”

“A barmaid?” Dan asks.

The sailor lifts his head to look Dan in the eye. “Mmm, but so much more than that I think.”

“Pretty?” 

“So pretty,” he says, “a mess of brown curls and the most joyful laugh I’ve ever heard. Sometimes I sit and listen just to hear that laugh.”

“So you made her laugh?” Dan asked.

“Oh no. She only laughs like that for one man, but I reveled in it all the same.”

Dan nods slowly as he wipes the bar down.

“Men like me don’t often settle down,” the sailor continues, “but those brown eyes are something special, they could steal a sailor from the sea.”

Leaning on the bar, Dan clears his throat. “I’m sure she’d be flattered but it sounds like her heart has been claimed by another.”

The man nods and hums and then he whispers, “but he’s not here.”

Dan runs his knuckles over the locket through the thin fabric of his shirt. 

“Well, tempted as she may be,” he says “she belongs to someone.”

It only takes a certain look sent toward the cook for him to take Dan’s place. He has to get out, he needs air. Standing on the edge of the cliff like he does nearly every night, he watches the water move beneath him, lapping against the broad expanse of rock, patient. 

He closes his eyes, feels the cold air bite at his cheeks and tries to see sharp cheekbones and bright blue eyes. All he sees is flashes of skin in the dark, a visceral memory of touches and lips pressed to places he’d never revealed to anyone. He’s flooded with want, tears welling up and he can’t hear the wind anymore. All he can hear is the low, desperate voice of a tall northern boy.

“You’re perfect Dan. Perfect. I love you.”

***

They’re sat at a table in the empty tavern. Phil had wanted to talk without the distraction of Dan’s bed in the room.

“I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

“You never are.”

“Yes but the runs are getting longer, more remote. Dad hasn’t been well and he and mum are ready to retire. And Martyn met someone. He’s spent less and less time on the ship.” 

“You can do that?” Dan says, failing to hide the hope in his tone.

“Well he can,” Phil replies. “He’s always been more business than fishing. Though he’s good at both. It’s not fair really, he has choices.”

“You have choices,” Dan says, “you could choose a different life.”

He ignores that. “He’ll probably marry soon.”

Dan can’t look at Phil. He gets up and finds a rag, starts aggressively dusting the piano. He knows that just leaves Phil, Captain Phil Lester. He’ll take over his father’s post.

Phil watches him stomp around the room, he doesn’t try to temper his frustration.

“I just don’t want you waiting around, Dan. I hate to think of you lonely.” 

A bitter noise escapes Dan but he stops and looks at Phil. “I’m not lonely. And I don’t want anyone else.”

“It's getting harder to find a good bite. There’s so many of us now. I have to prove myself, the trips will be longer and harder.”

“There are captains for hire, are there not? You could find a way to serve the family business. You could choose to stay with me.”

Dan knows its not true, he hates himself for saying it. Phil can’t choose to leave that life any more than Dan can choose not to love him.

“It’s not just my family. It’s my life, Dan. If I could bring you with me, I would, but I can’t stay here. I don’t know how to live on solid ground. I trip standing still. I need the floor to move beneath my feet.”

Anger and jealousy rise in Dan's throat and he wants to scream. He knows it's not fair to take it out on Phil. He knows it’s a waste of time.

“Danny, please. I know you don’t understand but I don’t want you to hate me. I’d stay if I could, if there was a way here for me.”

The shake in Phil’s voice has Dan regretting every word he’s said.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” he says, “just let me pretend that you’ll be here when i wake up.”

Phil just takes his hand and heads up the stairs.

***

In all the years Dan has slept in this bed, it has never felt so empty as it does now. He’s woken up alone so many times but there’s something different about this time. When he sits up, Phil’s striped jumper is there, on the foot of the bed, and sitting on top is a note. Quickly, he pulls the jumper over his head. It’s big and it smells like spice and cedar. He wants to curl into himself and cry, to stay here in the bed and let the world wash away. 

Instead he allows himself just a moment of grief before he sits up and reads.

Danny, 

The sun is just now rising and I’m sat at your desk, watching you sleep. All I want is to climb in next to you and stay and stay and stay. I’ve never loved anyone or anything the way I love my life on the water. But you’re different. You are everything I know out there, vast and tumultuous but calm and deep at turns. And when you need to, you move, you take, but you give too. I’m starting to wonder if you’re real or just some spirit, some sea sprite or selkie, some embodiment of the sea that calls to me.

If I wake you, I will find your eyes and your lips and the salt of your skin and I’ll be anchored here with you and so I’ll leave you be.

I’m torn in two, Danny. I can’t give her up, I know that I can’t. And I’m finding it harder and harder to leave you too. But I have to go. 

All my love, 

Phil

  
  


Dan folds the note in half and tucks it into the book that sits by his bed. He runs his hands over his face, clearing the tears away, keeps the jumper on and goes to work. Smiling isn’t hard to fake. He quips and winks and stands up straight and tall when things get rowdy toward closing. And after closing, he locks up, pulls on his coat, and heads out.

The streets are empty. Dan walks till he reaches the railing that keeps him safely perched atop the crumbling cliff side. His fingers curl tightly around the locket, tucked into his palm. He looks to the horizon and conjures a ship in his mind, on it’s way home to him.


End file.
